


Introspection

by Lilemon



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, I needed to write something lowstress, best way to call it?? it's just kinda rambles, kinda sad ending if you know how the game ends JAJDNFMG, musing I suppose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilemon/pseuds/Lilemon
Summary: Paracelsus muses on her past life, and how her feelings for her friends grew.
Kudos: 4





	Introspection

**Author's Note:**

> this is not good lmao but I needed a break from serious writing  
> I've been so. blocked that I cannot write so I just went to have some fun! My own version of Paracelsus is somebody I can relate to so. Lowkey a vent? idk  
> enjoy!

A brilliant mind, they called her. Truly, a prodigal student.  
  
All the work in the world, and yet she still completed it all.  
  
Any question solved in an instant, any formula a suggestion rather than a problem.  
  
In the eyes of both the university and her peers, Paracelsus was a shining example of a student, a bright star who put her fellows inquisitive minds to shame. She had a future, a goal, a potential world opened to her. Lives to be saved, death to be cured.  
  
And so simply, she threw it all away. The knowledge she was being taught was simply... not enough. The frogs and the rats and the pigs and the birds... Not enough.  
  
Not enough, not enough, not enough.  
  
The poor man, rotting away. _That_ was enough. And so she took advantage. Threw it all away. Was it worth it?  
  
She asked herself that every night.  
  
Was the shame, the fear, the near-death worth it? Was the pain and suffering and the nightmares and the tears worth it?  
  
She couldn't remember the last time she had cried so much. Tears took away from work. Less work threatened her position. That wasn't allowed. So she simply didn't.  
  
Now, though, trapped in this hell with all her fellow adventurers, she found herself more and more broken than ever before. And when she cried, she didn't bother to stop it. Sometimes, she'd be joined by the other strange fellows of the hamlet.  
  
Sometimes, it was the strange Leper. He would impart bitter wisdom, knowing he would not live long enough to see it. "The sun rises," he would say, his voice pensive and soothing. "And the winter passes."  
  
Sometimes, it was the sardonic Grave Robber. She would simply drink and play games with a sharp smile, knowing she may not live to see tomorrow. "Chin up dearie," She would say, her voice melodic and dark. "We cannot afford to falter."  
  
And sometimes, it was the tragic Vestal. She would write and read and she would join Paracelsus in the tears, knowing that she had nothing else to do. "Light guide us," she would whisper, her voice breaking and weak. "For I don't know how much longer we can go."  
  
Those nights, so tragic in nature, were always cathartic. They had happened so many times, and yet she could only recall four of them. The first, when they had embraced and held each other as they simply talked. The second, when they plotted a life away from the horrors. The third, when they promised to survive.  
  
And the fourth, where they did not say a word.  
  
Paracelsus held those memories close, yes, as she could not remember any others. Her life was simply study and work. Show off her prodigious nature, earn the favor of schools, save her family.  
  
Remembering the nights meant she could forget other, less favorable, things. It meant she could forget her time in the university. It meant she could forget running. It meant she could forget the madness and the yelling and it meant she could move on.  
  
A blessing in and of itself.  
  
She would never admit it, but she treasured the time she spent with them. It was an odd feeling. When they got hurt, she felt a tug to go help them. When they laughed, as rare as it was, she felt the urge to join in.  
  
They mattered to her, far more than her worthless studies.  
  
She wanted to burn them all, to turn her frantic scribbles to ashes. They do not matter now. After the horrors she had seen, it does not matter. They have learned how to master life and death, after all. Her notes mattered not. She knew more. She was more.  
  
Perhaps, after they returned from the final assault on the dungeon, she would finally release them and truly begin anew. 


End file.
